


The Texas Resistance

by Pigeon



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - War, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, occupied country, semi-prostitution, underground resistance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-27
Updated: 2009-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In occupied Texas you can fight back or just fight to survive. The Texas Resistance provides an opportunity for those brave or stupid enough to want to free Texas from its oppressors. Jeff, Jared, and Jensen have all chosen different routes within the Resistance movement. They all fight and struggle in their own ways, and maybe they can all find each other in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jared

**Author's Note:**

> The incredible art for this fic was created by [sillie82](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/) and her art masterpost can be found [here](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/246228.html).

  
Upside down and backward on the ground glass. Dust falling, beaten off faded denim (the uniform of the _People_ ), hands held in front of eyes, shielding from the fierce Texan sun.

A thin, feral cat, mangy fur, head slung low, darts across the scene and Jared captures the shot.

It takes him a moment to set up the next picture. The people don't pause, they shift and whirl in the viewfinder, dancing in and out of the frame. Jared steadies his breathing. Blinks slowly as he looks down into the aperture. Lets his eyes absorb the entirety of the scene.

Small girl, skinned knees showing beneath the hem of her dress, clutching a brown paper bag, off to the left and center back.

Light glinting off a green bottle (wine maybe? Jared frowned- he hasn't seen anyone drink wine since he arrived) in the middle of the shot, a couple seated at the table, leaning in close, her hair blonde and falling into her face, him with days worth of stubble, a grease stain high over a cheekbone.

A soldier with a gun. Half in shadows and fingers fidgeting restlessly.

Jared squeezes the shutter slowly.

Hours later, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, the hotel bathroom smelling sharply of developing fluid, he pins the prints up to dry; a dozen photographs hanging from a line stretched high above the bathtub.

Most are a little bland. Pretty little shots of nothing. The whirl of dust, elegant kick of a leg showing beneath cotton skirt, bright flash of teeth from a half-grown youth.

Nothing that screams _Occupation_.

He plucks the shot of the café in the square, the soldier a dark presence at the rear.

This one might do.

Put it out on the News-Service, see if he can get the editor to put a good caption to it. Something that emphasizes the hint of menace.

And subtle enough to get it past the World Bank censors.

He snatches at the loupe he'd left by the sink, next to his wash-bag, a broken-tooth comb and blunted safety razor sticking out messily. All the little essentials he always carries with him- shampoo and soap, string of condoms, a can of deodorant, and toothbrush all snug next to developing fluid, tweezers, thermometer, and stopwatch. Hidden away, tucked neatly inside the lining of his wash-bag, is a narrow balisong knife.

The lighting of the shot is decent- the sunlight lying thick over the figures in the foreground, touches of gold gilding skin. The shadows deepening further back, doorways and alcoves swathed in black, drawing the eye in.

Just at the edge of the frame, half sheathed in darkness, two men caught mid-embrace.

Square shoulders beneath a World Bank uniform. An officer. Pips catching the afternoon light. Head tilted down, almost swooping to capture the lips of his companion, hands grasping at the body crushed to him.

The other... slight and pretty, dressed in common denim, faded and grimy from one of the factories. Sharp green eyes sliding away to stare straight into the camera lens.

Jared draws back.

Crop the photo just right, narrow down to the two subjects, the long line of their bodies, the tender violence of their embrace, the cut of wide eyes fixed on the viewer...

It's been a long time since Jared took a picture that made him think of Beaton, of Salisbury, of Arbus, or of Weegee.

He rubs at his eyes, takes a breath before focusing back on the picture. Not perfect- not sharp enough in the lower right corner, too much exposure- the center figures a touch too bright, but, _damn_ , it's a close thing.

A glance at his watch and he's putting the bathroom back to rights- dark brown bottles replaced in their case, trays rinsed and left to dry, all his little accoutrements tucked away.

Evening is edging on, and he remembers the dry, raw noises of a Texan night- low creature-sounds, drunk and lush murmurs and yowls. The thin silence from the streets below prickles and sends his fingers fidgeting.

The Concierge smiles at him as he exits the hotel.

The directions he'd been given were meticulous- the streets named and described down to the faded colors of the doors, but it's the faint twist of music that he hears as he moves further from the hotel that leads him on. He walks through the square he'd staked out earlier, his stride lengthening as he passes the café and the alcove that had sheltered the entwined couple. He spares a careless grin for the sentries that watch him.

The music gets louder as he slips down a side street; just a muffled thump-thud of bass, a low suggestion of music rather than any tune.

A square of amber light spills out from a doorway.

Stepping into the bar he smells all the sweetness of beer and sweat and tobacco. Lanterns and candles are dotted about, softening the glow of the electric lamps, and adding a fine burnt scent to the air. To his right patrons sprawl gracelessly, fists wrapped about heavy steins, to the left a long wooden bar sweeps onward, shot glasses balanced in mountainous towers along the edge.

He'd like to set up his camera in here- capture the boneless slouch of the Texans, all bloodshot eyes and determined expressions. He thinks about the way the warm light would soften the harsh stubbled jaws of the patrons, the lean violence of the men tempered with whiskey and song.

"Yes, Son, what can I get for you?"

Jared smiles mildly at the barman- not tall, good solid muscles showing beneath a washed out gray shirt, and a smile that's all kinds of pretty and dirty. "Beer will do me fine. Something with a bit of history in brewing though, hey?" He leans down and across, not close enough to threaten, just enough that their talk has a quality of intimacy about it. "If they ain't been making the stuff for at least twenty-three years, I don't want to know."

The barman's smile doesn't change, but he lifts his chin just a tad. "Hmm, see, if we was talking about whiskey I could get you something real old and real fine. Something as old as your Grandpappy- something from back in 'thirty seven."

This is a kid's game.

"Sorry, man, gotta be beer." Jared takes a moment to scan the pumps they've got, and the bottles in aluminum buckets filled with ice. "I haven't had to drink some crappy light-beer since I was fourteen."

"Hmm, well, Kid, we've got a fine malt liquor might do you. Don't know if they was brewing as far back as 'sixty four, but I swear it'll go down smooth and strong."

A damn kid's game.

 _23-37-14-64_

Like a goddamn safe combination.

"Do me fine." He nods his thanks and counts out his change as the mug is pushed in front of him. The barman's true to his word and the drink is silky as it slips down his throat. "Name's Jared."

"Good to meet you, Jared. You new to town? We've a real friendly place here, gets all sorts." The barman nods his head to a couple corners where Jared can just make out the uniforms of the WB officers in the dim light. "I'm Christian, place is owned by Jeff- stick around and you might get to meet him later."

Jared salutes him with his mug. "Will do."

He watches as Christian wipes down the bar and smiles nice as you please as, one after another, men come to get refills. He laughs once, long hair flicking back, and Jared spots a scar on his neck, a long jagged fork that reaches from his collar to his ear.

Someone turns up the music, it's old-style country and Jared doesn't quite recognize it though it lurks at the edge of his memory- something about his Momma singing away to it in the kitchen when he was small and watched her cook up batches of waffles, a skillet full of eggs and bacon frying on the back of the stove.

There's a tap at his elbow and he's following Christian further into the bar, and around to the left where the electric light has disappeared and the candles are less and less frequent. From the tables and booths on his right he can hear the wet smack of kisses, and low moans, but the shadows are deep enough that only dimly sketched figures are visible.

Christian knocks lightly on a door at the end of the bar, then ushers Jared into a pokey little office. The light's a little stronger than it was out in the bar but not by much, and Jared has to squint to see the guy standing up to grasp his hand.

"Jeff Morgan." It's a low rumble of a voice, and the hairs on the back of Jared's neck stand on end.

"Jared Padalecki," he returns. "We gotta play more number games now?"

Jeff laughs and grips Jared's hand a little bit tighter. "Nah, Chris would never have shown you back here if he weren't sure of you."

"Huh," Jared tucks his thumbs into this belt loops and rocks back a little on his heels. "And if I'm not sure about you?"

Jeff laughs again, and the grin that races across his face somehow manages to have a slow, laid back quality to it. "Then we are all just that little bit more screwed." Jeff sits on the edge of the very large desk that dominates the very small office. "Seriously, a little bit of paranoia's good for the soul. Probably be in your best interest not to trust me or anyone else too much."

"And what's in _your_ best interest?"

"For you to have complete faith in me and do everything I say exactly as I say it." Jeff shakes his head. "But we don't always get what we want."

"Nope." Jared takes a breath. "So I guess you're the spymaster 'round here, then?"

Jeff nods, mouth quirking a little. "Guess so. And you're my brand new inside man. Grab a pew, Jared. We've got things to discuss and you don't need to be standing at attention for it."

The sounds from the bar are muffled here. Occasionally Jared will catch a low refrain from a song, or even hear a yodel when they break out the really old country, but mostly the only thing to listen to is Jeff's low voice breaking down how the local Resistance movement works around here.

There's nothing surprising, nothing Jared hadn't guessed or couldn't have worked out for himself. Jeff co-ordinates all the operations, nothing happens without his say so, and most of his people only know a handful of other Resistance members.

"You got any queries, any concerns, no matter how trivial, you come to me or Christian. Don't care if it's the most petty little thing in the world, understand me?" Jeff hasn't shifted from where he's perched on the edge of the desk, but there's a new tightness, a new tension in his body.

"I getcha."

"I lose people cause it's dangerous out there, don't intend to start losing people due to stupidity as well."

Jared nods, and then freezes as he hears a sharp clatter off in a dark corner of the office, like someone had kicked a pile of tin cans over.

Jeff's eyes drift shut and he sighs. "Would rather not lose people due to clumsiness either!" He's raised his voice, and the tone is half resignation, half amusement. "That you, Jen?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "You can come on out, kid, you're kind of sucking at the stealth-thing."

The shadows in the corner shift, and Jared realizes a heavy drape was obscuring a doorway.

There's a pause, and then a figure is stepping through and into the center of the room.

Jared watches Jeff- watches the minute relaxing of his wide shoulders, while his fingers begin a quick awkward tattoo on his thigh.

"Jared, one of our operatives, Jensen." Jeff's smile has turned warm, his voice still low but now soft like molasses creeping slow over his tongue. "Jen, this is Jared. He's gonna be our pipeline out."

"Nice to meet ya." Jared steps forward, hand outstretched, and Jensen-

It's not that Jensen _flinches_ , Jared's watched enough folk flinch and baulk away from him since he entered Texas a week ago. All those people expecting to be used rough and cruel, waiting for a blow to fall.

No, it's not a flinch, it's a _stillness_.

Still and tense and kinda insolent; chin tilted up, eyes fixed and unblinking behind thick-rimmed glasses, lips a half second away from a smirk.

Jared eases back down into his seat.

Jensen moves then, body unlocking, something quick and fluid rippling along his shoulders, and he's pulling off his glasses and offering a quiet smile. "Jared."

It hits Jared then, the way it often does- just a moment too late, a moment after it really should have, a moment after anyone else would have- the recognition.

Jensen with his wide green eyes, all sharp and pretty and deadly.

He thinks back to the photograph he'd taken that afternoon, the heavy built WB officer, the fierce grip he'd had on his companion, on _Jensen_ , how Jensen had looked small and narrow next to that bulk.

How cutting his gaze had been, staring across the square and into the lens of the camera.

Standing here Jensen is taller than he'd thought, and there's a good solid breadth to his shoulders, but Jared can see that beneath the weatherworn denim of his overalls that his waist and hips are narrow, just as slight as he'd first thought.

"Well, boys," Jeff's grinning at the pair of them, one large hand moving to clasp the back of Jensen's neck, curling around the nape gently, thumb stroking skin with an almost absent minded rhythm. "'Spose it's time we started to make a few plans."

The trip across Texas had been a real eye opener. The heavy rolls of barbwire and sentry huts, the casually slung machine guns over khaki covered shoulders, the skittering gazes of too thin Texans. Jared had watched the newsreels, he'd read everything available, all the newsprint he could find, had even spoken to a couple of Texans who managed to crawl out past the border controls and begged, borrowed, and stolen until they hit the relative safety and neutrality of Canada.

Yet, somehow he had never thought it would be quite so much like some damn old World War II movie.

He wondered if all the other places the World Bank had taken over, the deserts in the Middle East or the rainforests and savannah of Nigeria invoked the same sense of nostalgia- as if Gregory Peck or Kenneth More could step around the corner at any moment, Webley Service Revolver in hand.

His photographs looked mocked up, all Hollywood sets and bit-players.

Jeff laughs when he says this to him one night over whiskey and smuggled papers.

"Jesus, kid, give it another month or so, I promise you it'll pass."

"It sounds shallow, don't it? Like I think it's nothing but a game." Jared shakes his head, and takes another sip of his drink. "Folks about here are dying, and I can't get it out of my head how fuckin' surreal it all is, like everyone else is reading from a script and I've forgotten my lines."

Jeff kicks up a foot onto the desk and slouches down a little further in his chair. "Jared, I promise you, that's as good a description of what's going on here as I've ever heard." He throws him a wink, and drains the last of his drink. "This whole thing is messed up, all half-baked ideas and goddamn oil." He presses his lips into a tight line, eyes fixed somewhere over Jared's head, "And I've got kiddies playing at being spies and getting themselves..."

Jared clambers to his feet and snatches the half empty bottle of whiskey off the desk. He pours Jeff another good slug before topping up his own glass. "Well, fuck the lot of it," he raises his drink as a toast. "Here's to..." he pauses. "Here's to a good drink on a warm night and living until tomorrow."

Jeff raises his own glass.

The morning had been spent at a WB parade- all the little soldier boys in their neat pressed uniforms pretending to be idealists and crusaders and not the rabble of hired mercenaries most were. The officers, the true believers in their cause, their noble globalization; standing smart and smug as their men marched past, thoughts of the grand plan running through their heads, how much better the world would be once countries were done away with and the free market could reign supreme.

Jared had taken reams of shots, snapping photo after photo of the WB flag snapping in the breeze over the troops.

It had all looked so fucking civilized.

In the afternoon he was in the mocked-up darkroom in his hotel bathroom, breathing in the sharp scent of developing fluid and pinning up wet sheets of propaganda.

Jeff stretches, arms raised above his head and Jared watches the thin curl of flesh visible as his shirt rides up. This would make a good composition. The weary power and strength of Jeff's body, the relaxed pose and shadowed face.

Large hands cradling his glass of whiskey.

The frayed hems of his jeans, one heavy soled boot resting on the desk, the other placed solidly on the floor.

The open V of his legs.

Jared shifts in his seat. The photos of the WB Militia had spoken of nothing but a brute force playing at being guardians of the people.

A photo of Jeff would be sex and sin and that unhurried and lazy force wrapped beneath silken layers of slow smiles and shadowed promises.

"Texas weren't like this when I was a kid," Jared keeps his voice low, eyes still tracking the firm lines of Jeff's body. "Nothing's like how I left it."

"How old were you when you moved to Canada?"

"'Bout twelve or thirteen." Jared bites back a grin. "Hated the fucking cold, hated the snow, took me fucking years to adjust." He can remember his first Canadian boyfriend, all six feet six of him, fierce blond hair and lopsided smile. "Got there eventually. How about you?"

"From Seattle originally. Followed the prettiest little twink down here, started the bar, he left," Jeff shrugs, "I didn't."

"Prettiest little twink, huh?" Jared nudges Jeff's leg with his foot. "Prettier than Jensen?"

"Well," Jeff takes a breath, looking at Jared from beneath half-lidded eyes. "I would never call Jen a twink. Not to his face at least."

"Hah. Knew it." Jared has only seen Jensen a handful of times since he started spying for Jeff. He knows some of the information passed to him to smuggle out probably comes from Jensen, but he gets it all from Jeff's hands when he visits and is treated to old whiskey and slow honest talk.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Jensen is there too. Drink in hand and sitting close to Jeff, or opposite Christian head bowed and talking soft and fast. He's never in the bar, always tucked tight away in the office. He never really talks to Jared, he's not rude, does nothing to snub him, but he'll duck his head and his voice will drop away.

It takes Jared two solid weeks before it hits him that Jensen's fucking _shy_.

He's expected tonight, and Jeff had asked Jared to stick around, apologizing casually for not knowing exactly when to expect him. "Kid keeps his own schedule," he'd said with a shrug, as he'd reached out for the bottle and two glasses.

That had been three hours ago, and whilst Jared isn't drunk, he is mildly fuzzy at the edges, that slow languor he gets in his bones that only comes from really good whiskey.

And, more than that, he's fucking tired.

The hotel bedroom is foreign territory for all that it lies deep in the heart of Texas. Though he knows that he is here at the invitation of The World Bank, to photograph and document how goddamn _well_ they are treating the Texans, he doesn't trust that the room isn't bugged. And he's never been able to sleep well knowing someone was watching him.

His jaw cracks as he yawns.

"Jared." Jeff is at his elbow, one hand reaching down to grip at his upper arm, tugging him upright. "Come on, you can get some rest downstairs. I'll wake you when Jen arrives. Come on, on your feet."

He's led past the draped doorway, and he can smell something sweet in the air, like crushed petals and hard candy. He's blinking the tiredness from his eyes, but notices a heavy wooden door to his left that must lead to the street, before he's stepping down a narrow spiral staircase and out into the room below.

It's another small room, with bare brickwork softened by threadbare tapestries. The furniture is all old and worn, cheap wood and moth-eaten cushions. And the bed shoved against the back wall is not large, but looks soft, and that is more than inviting enough.

"Come on then," Jeff tugs the sheet back. "Hop in."

Jared's already pulling off his shirt, but he pauses for a moment. "You sure this is okay, man?"

"Course it is." Jeff quirks a smile at him, eyes drifting quite happily over Jared's torso. "Jen sleeps here too sometimes. When he needs to rest."

"Well, if you're sure." He slips between the sheets, sighing as the mattress settles beneath him. "You'll yell when Jensen arrives?"

"Yes, now get some sleep already."

Jared smiles and burrows down deeper, shutting his eyes.

His dreams are a confused mess. Snatches of icy landscapes warring with the press of hot bodies and the slow pull of a hand around his cock. Flashbulbs illuminate green eyes and the taste of salt on his tongue. The snap of a flag and blunt teeth set against his collarbone, indents in his skin.

He wakes to Jeff's hand, warm and calloused on his bare shoulder, shaking him gently. "Come on, Kid. Time's up."

"Huh?"

"Eloquent." Even half asleep he can hear the smile in Jeff's voice. "Jen's here."

"'Kay." He struggles to sit up in the bed, sheets pooling at his waist. He blinks up into Jeff's face, aware that he's hard and his skin itches with need, and there's no way he's getting up out of this bed right now. Tugging Jeff down onto the bed with him seems like a really good idea; he can already imagine the feel of all those muscles beneath his hands, and the taste of Jeff's mouth. "Hang on," he scrubs a hand over his face, trying to look a little more cognizant.

Over Jeff's shoulder he can see Jensen, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, dressed in denim so worn it's almost transparent in places, a rip above the knee showing a sliver of pale, freckled thigh. Jared feels his cock twitch impatiently.

"Right. Sorry." He blinks, and manages to smile mildly at them. "I'm awake. What's happening?"

"Have a job for you," Jeff pauses. "If you're willing. It'll be a bit more dangerous than what you've done for us so far."

"Okay, what is it?"

"Need you to go with Jensen tomorrow. There are some documents we need photographing."

"Breaking and entering?"

"No," Jeff shakes his head. "Just a case of not getting caught."

"Right." Jensen is still standing on the far side of the room and Jared wonders if he's thrown by seeing Jared bare-chested and ensconced in Jeff's bed, if he's jealous, or if he wants to crawl in beside him. "When?"

"Tomorrow. Meet Jen at the corner of Stanhope and George at about...." Jeff throws a look over his shoulder, and Jensen takes a step forward.

"I clock off at the factory at five." Jensen runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking from Jeff to Jared and back again. "So, quarter past?" He takes another step forward, and he's standing at the bottom of the bed, close enough that Jared can see the speckles of grease on his T-shirt and how his lips twitch just before he says something. "You'll wait if I'm running late?"

"Never fear."

Jensen's lips quirk again at that, but he nods, and then he's off- moving swiftly out of the room, feet slapping against the metal stairs.

  
Sunday and Jared thinks he should hear church bells ringing and the chatter of women all dressed in their finest with hats on and noisy children, bored and getting under foot, on the way to service. Instead there are the same sounds as every day preceding it, the clatter and hum of the workers heading to factories and the snap of boots on the sidewalk as soldiers march by.

Religious services of any denomination had been one of the first things banned when the tanks had rolled in and the brief war was lost.

There are rumors of clandestine services, pastors gone underground and preaching in barns and loft spaces, but Jared has yet to meet anyone willing to admit to attending any such thing so he's yet to see for himself.

Breakfast in the hotel is biscuits with gravy, a side of sausage and fluffy scrambled eggs. Jared eats quickly, listening to snatches of conversation around him- most of the other patrons are WB; officers, or other officials, all neat and shiny in uniforms or suits.

He watches the waiting staff, their steady hands as they pour more coffee and their smiles as they offer to fetch newspapers.

He takes his camera with him as he walks the streets. It's quiet, most of the populace at work in the factories, sweating away at munitions, and Jared takes photos of stray dogs and walls pockmarked with bullet holes.

He stops at the bar for lunch, hops up onto a stool and watches Christian as he wipes down the bar and serves all the other customers whilst he sips at his beer and eats a ham sandwich.

At a quarter past five he's at the corner of Stanhope and George, camera slung over one shoulder, back pressed to a white stucco wall.

Jensen doesn't show until five to six, the smudges of grease across his face not disguising the raw graze high up on his cheekbone. His thick-rimmed glasses are held together by tape and the scratches on the left lens are clearly visible- something Jared knows hadn't been so last night.

"Come on," Jensen doesn't smile at him or offer any apology, his shoulders hunched up around his ears.

It's only a minute to an apartment block that's nice enough for Jared to feel scruffy in his clean jeans and button-down. Jensen, in his filthy overalls, ripped and faded with a dark smear of blood and grease at the knee, looks beyond incongruous and Jared has to fight the desire to laugh. They take the stairs up to the third floor and Jensen pulls a key out of his pocket, and ushers them into a bright, pale apartment.

"The documents are on the desk," Jensen waves an arm towards the heavy mahogany desk set before the window. "He shouldn't remember their exact placement but..." he shrugs.

"He?" Jared's already slipping the camera from its case, clipping on the flash.

"Fredrick." Jensen's tugging the drapes back a little further, letting more light into the room. "Lieutenant Colonel Thomas."

Jared nods, already taking rapid shots of the documents- the typed reports, lists of munitions, the maps of troop positions.

Jensen keeps quiet while he works, keeps out of the way, body held still.

For a time there is nothing but the sound of the shutter and the bright shock of the flashbulb.

Then there's the creak of a step outside the door, and Jensen hissing " _hide_ ", before the lock clicks and a man in pressed khaki steps through. Jared is behind a decorative screen, half hunched over to hide his height and peering through a hinged join.

"Jensen?"

"I didn't expect you so soon." Jensen has stepped up close to the officer, not touching, just _close_.

"I can see that." Jared recognizes the build, the bulk of the officer. Jensen's companion in that damned photo. The man who'd held Jensen close to him, head tilted down for a kiss. "Get changed."

Jensen doesn't reply just steps smoothly away, disappearing from Jared's view.

There's a space of minutes- Jared counting his own breaths and holding himself with a stillness he is not used to. The officer putters about, loosens his collar, tidies the scattered papers on the desk, hums a little.

When Jensen returns his face is freshly scrubbed clean and pink, water droplets clinging to his short hair. His glasses have been abandoned and his eyes are wide and bright. He's wrapped in silk, a peach dressing gown that reaches past his knees and is knotted tight at his waist.

"Better." The officer's fingers skate over the red graze on Jensen's cheek. The wound should make him look harder, rougher, but it highlights the composition of his face, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the full swell of his lips and instead adds a vague vulnerability. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Jensen shakes his head, eyes sliding away to the side.

The officer strokes Jensen's face and Jared feels a coil of heat begin to uncurl low in his belly.

"Fredrick, I..." a hand slides down Jensen's neck, thumb ghosting over his Adam's apple.

"What, Jensen?"

Jensen smiles a little. "Please?"

The officer, _Fredrick_ , nods and Jensen drops silently to his knees.

Jared shuts his eyes.

The noises are obscene. Half bitten off groans and slick wet swallows. A gravelly curse and then a broken sound Jared can't quite place. His own heartbeat thunders loud in his ears.

There's a moan that he _knows_ is completion, and he slowly opens his eyes. Jensen is still on his knees, lips swollen and red, and dropping kisses and licks on Fredrick's spit-wet and sated cock.

Jared bites his own lip, waits for an opportunity to slip from the apartment, tries not to look at where Jensen's robe has been tugged open, tries not to let his eyes drop to where he can see Jensen is hard and naked and still on his fucking knees.

Finally Fredrick pulls back with a sigh, patting Jensen's head clumsily, and moves off into a different room.

Jensen's eyes cut to where Jared is hidden.

" _Leave_ ," he mouths.

And Jared is moving and out the door before Jensen can say anything else.

When the door to his hotel suite is shut behind him he gasps for breath, and slams his fist into the wall.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0001yfsb/)


	2. Jensen

He keeps his breaths even and deep. Cold hands pressing and feeling and goddamn _weighing_ him, checking for signs of infection, of sores or rashes.

He wonders if the stirrups are necessary, or just another way to mess with his head. Made for pregnant women, and with the gown up around his knees and with the doctor between his legs and out of sight, frigid fingers pressing up and _in_ , if he's meant to feel exposed, or just completely emasculated.

He feels a warm puff of air ghost over his balls and has to bite the inside of his cheek.

He's fairly certain getting aroused now would be a bad idea.

There's another cursory sweep of fingers up and around the clean-shaved skin of his groin and if it wasn't for his legs being held up and wide he'd be trying to shut them as he scuttled backwards.

The doctor's head reappears, and he's pronounced _clean_.

Fit to be had by WB officers.

Jensen doesn't reply, just slips to his feet and tugs his gown down until he's covered and decent again.

The doctor smiles at him vaguely, as if they've just met, as if he didn't just have his hands... His fingers...

He dresses quickly, pulling on his overalls, and lacing up his boots. It's another six full months until he has to be subjected to this again. The air is warm when he steps out of the clinic, sun still hours from setting, and the breeze almost nonexistent.

He criss-crosses through the streets, traveling east first, until he spots the barbwire that lies at the far edge of town, then it's north west, then south west, before he's walked the tension out of his bones and he feels he can have a drink without wanting to dive in the bottle.

Jeff's bar lies smack in the center of town, and it takes him another forty minutes before he's slipping up the side street and quietly letting himself in the back door.

It's dangerous to be here. He comes too often. Too often curls into a corner of Jeff's dusty couch, or lets himself doze in Jeff's bed peaceful without Fredrick's hands drifting over him. He comes often enough that he knows where Jeff keeps his personal stash of whiskey, and soft worn cotton clothes are left folded for him at the side of the bed.

Right now he wants just enough whiskey to warm his belly, and to slide in-between Jeff's sheets for an hour and just close his eyes.

Jensen pours himself a healthy slug, considers a moment, and leaves the bottle by the bed. There's a churning in his gut, nausea all twisted up with arousal and he can still feel the echo of cold hands cupping and feeling and pressing at him.

And he hadn't wanted it.

He _hadn't_.

But, as he strips away the soiled overalls, pulling on clothes made soft from a thousand washes instead, his breath catches a little and heat flows over his skin.

He holds himself still for a moment, then, slowly, clambers into the bed and sets his hands firmly palm down on the mattress. He counts his heartbeat, breathes out slowly through his mouth, tries to concentrate on the faint throb of pain on his cheek and blooming across his chest.

It is too easy to recall lying like this years ago, before the war, when he was so young and no one had ever touched him, or kissed him, and he hadn't know what it felt like to...

Too easy to draw back on the thoughts he'd had of being caught. Of his Mama catching him. Of Mama, who refused to put a lock on his door and timed the minutes he was permitted to spend in the shower, lest he be overcome by temptation.

He'd chafed against it back then, his open bedroom door, like wicked needles beneath his skin, and his hatred had been thick and bitter.

And those few times he'd snuck off- hidden in a corner of the barn, taken himself in hand, biting at his lips to keep quiet. He'd thought of being caught then too, only he'd imagined one of the farm hands, one of the tall strong men who worked the land, how their rough calloused hands might feel, how they might draw it out until he begged and shook with it.

And he'd flushed at the thought, face burning with the shame of his own imagination.

Lying in Jeff's bed, there is nothing but to keep his breaths slow and even, until this need passes as he knows it shall.

Dreams are the best refuge. He cannot be held accountable for his dreams, for the times when he's dreamt of hot mouths and heavy bodies and been driven to coming before he has even woken up.

Back on the farm it had been any random hand more often than not. Their attributes melding together, this one seeming as tall as that one, another having the blue eyes of his mate instead of his own brown.

Of course, there was the summer after Chris had come to stay, when all his dreams had featured that dirty pretty smile, and that was all it had taken, one flash of that smile before he was arching and coming hard in his pajamas.

But lately it had been Jeff. Jeff's low voice whispering filthy, filthy things in his ear. Jeff manhandling him onto all fours, or pressing him hard against a wall, whilst he takes his sweet time with him, filling him so achingly slowly, he thought it would never end, never reach its height.

And now? Now, he feels shamed that he thinks and dreams of Jeff with the new guy, Jared. Thinks and dreams of being caught between the two, feeling their weight holding him down, being passed as a toy between them. Having them take their turns with him, feeling their fingers touching and playing with him even as he's all fucked out and limp between them.

Feeling them press at his hole, circling the sore and swollen rim of it.

Sometimes, and he has no conceivable notion of where these thoughts come from, he thinks of either Jeff or Jared's hand cracking down sharply on his backside. Smacking until it is red and painful to the touch, and he is hard and weeping and it takes no more than a few stokes to have him coming desperately, tears in his eyes.

And through this humiliation, through this degrading experience, that has him squirming and hot, he imagines the other watching, watching it all.

He bites at his lips, legs widening to give himself more room, but doesn't touch. This is Jeff's bed, and he has no right to touch himself, to be that dirty little thing he knows his mother always thought he was in Jeff's bed.

There are no sounds down here. Up in Jeff's office Jensen can always here the faint drift of music and voices from the bar, but here in Jeff's private quarters all noise has been filtered out. Beyond his own breath there is nothing.

He can smell Jeff on the sheets. Smell the warmth of him, clean sweat mixed with a touch of heavy tobacco. He wonders if, beyond the scent of Jeff's heat and smoke, if there is anything of Jared trapped in the sheets.

He's not quite sure what Jared would smell of- a spring breeze maybe, that fresh _green_ scent.

Time slips by.

Fredrick will already be wondering and worrying and suspecting.

And no matter how much he wants to sleep in this cool empty bed, he's fought too hard to give up everything just for a little space of peace.

He changes back into his dirty overalls, and hurries up the staircase. He doesn't have a watch and isn't certain how many hours he has lain here, anger and need pulsing through him, sheen of perspiration on his skin, and heat rolling in his belly.

There are lights flickering uncertainly past the drape that sections off Jeff's office, and he pulls it aside slightly, peering over to the figures in the room surrounded by oil lanterns and thick white candles.

His first thought is that the power has fritzed out again.

Then he smells the blood.

 

Fredrick's arm lies thickly across his middle, smooth fingertips tracing arabesques into his flank, light enough that the sensation tickles just a bit and he can't help but squirm. And Fredrick puffs his laughter into his neck.

"Like you like this, Jensen."

"Like what?" Fredrick's hands dance faster across his ribs, and Jensen tries to twist away.

"Like this. Soft and fidgety." Fredrick laughs again as Jensen stifles a gasp; fingers finding the soft skin just beneath his arm, he strokes there again, flits his fingertips quick and feathery until Jensen is writhing and almost convulsing with it. "So pretty," Fredrick breathes, tickling faster, tickling harder.

It _hurts_.

His lungs ache where he cannot breathe and still Fredrick moves his fingers quicker laughing at him, at how he cannot control the gasping mess of his body. Tears are streaming down his face, and spots flicker before his eyes. There is not one single thing he could say to get Fredrick to stop even if he could find his voice; no cry of _mercy_ or _uncle_ to save him.

Finally just as the blackness starts to press in, the pressure vanishes. Fredrick is still laughing at him but his hands are slowing, moving in smooth gentle motions, as he pulls Jensen in closer.

Jensen accepts the hold, possibly curls up even closer.

He becomes aware that Fredrick is talking to him, at him, "And you never tell me _no_." He presses a sloppy kiss to Jensen's temple. "Never ask me to stop."

Jensen shakes his head, his heart is pounding and he still can't quite drag enough air into his lungs.

Fredrick has already bent him over the mattress, hands greedy and impatient, opening him with jerky, rushed preparations, the slick cold on his skin, and it had all been barely enough before there was that blunt press and burn, forcing it's way in, stretching him to the point of pain.

And he'd pressed back harder on it. Fucked himself backwards onto Fredrick's dick even as Fredrick had pushed himself slowly in.

He'd pled with his body for more and harder.

It'd probably been an accident that Fredrick had brushed against that sweet spot with each drag of his cock.

But, _Oh_ -

That had been enough, and…

Jensen had gritted his teeth as he'd come.

Though he'd still felt the ghost of Chris' blood sticky and hot coating his hands.

He'd gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, Fredrick's grip on his hip hard enough to bruise.

He'd still seen the faint trembles that Chris would, no doubt, deny later as Jeff pushed the needle through the flesh of his shoulder again and again.

He'd still felt the crush of Chris' hand around his own.

Fredrick had changed the angle after he'd come, long and deep becoming fast and shallow, and he'd panted through it, aftershocks making his breath catch, waiting for it to end. Waiting for Fredrick to shudder and curse and collapse on top of him.

Chris's wound had been narrow and coiled from his shoulder blade, around his torso to the pinch of his waist. The blood had flowed freely, welling up bright and red over and over, even as Jensen had pressed damp cloths to the gash, pressed hard enough to make Chris gasp.

When Jeff had tied off the last stitch, black cotton shocking on Chris' skin that had paled to the color of buttermilk, they'd tried to manhandle Chris down the stairs.

Chris had snarled at them, twisting away from where they held him upright.

And told them that he was no fucking invalid, and there was no fucking way that he was fucking sleeping in Jeff's fucking bed just because of some fucking little cut.

It had taken Jensen another hour and a half to walk Chris back to his own place. Chris leant heavily on him, swearing with every step, their journey across town a weaving unsteady line, pretending to be drunk whenever another figure came into view.

By the time Fredrick falls asleep, one hand still digging into the bruises he's bestowed on Jensen's hip, Jensen has moved past tiredness into the exhausted dry feeling he associates with insomnia. He feels drawn thin, skin tight and insubstantial as paper, muscles tensed and solid, blood rushing too fast, too violent through his veins.

It is an easy thing to roll Fredrick off him and slip from the bed. Fredrick always sleeps deeply after sex, snoring loudly and body no more than deadweight.

In the main room of the apartment Jensen starts to flick through the papers on the desk, hunching over and reading by the flicking, unsteady light of one candle. There's a soreness, a low persistent ache, that spikes to pain whenever he moves- the worst of it in his ass, but his back also protests, and his thighs feel wrecked from where he'd tensed them so hard as he'd approached completion. He does not even consider sitting down.

So many of the reports mean nothing to him. The language is military, officious, and full of acronyms _that mean nothing_. He needs a translator for this, someone who can put it all into plain English and gently explain to him what is happening and why his home is overrun and occupied.

He scans page after page.

He doesn't have an eidetic memory and if he could just take the reports or copy down in a notebook anything that sounded salient this would be much simpler. Far more efficient.

Instead the Resistance has to rely on his faulty memory, and Christ knows how many people he could get killed if he doesn't remember everything, doesn't remember everything _just_ right.

And, damn it, but he can still smell the sharp metallic tang of Chris' blood.

He can still see Jeff threading the needle, and swiping iodine over Chris skin.

Perhaps he should suggest to Jeff that they get Jared back in here. Get him to take rapid shots of all the papers and information Jensen simply can't get to stay in his brain. Perhaps it would be worth the risk, worth the danger, worth the look on Jared's face after he's seen him on his knees.

Seen him hard and needy even as he knew he was being watched.

 

The days in the factory are always monotonous.

Squirt of oil, twist of spanner, replace on the conveyor belt, and onto the next.

He'd like to know what the hell it is he's helping to make, but he suspects it's guns and ammo and bits for damn great tanks.

He can remember the low grinding rumble of the tanks as they'd approached the farm. Remember the crack and boom of guns, the sharp feel of his Mama's hand around his arm as she'd tugged him away, the scent of gunpowder and fear and blood in the air.

He can still smell those same things sometimes late at night, smell the destruction on Fredrick's body, the lingering death on his hands.

He pushes his glasses up away from his nose to rub at his eyes for a second. The scratches in the lenses irritate, his eyes trying to adjust past the imperfections, already gritty and sore from his sleepless night.

A bark of a laugh sounds to his left.

He holds himself still, doesn't twist round to see what's so funny, doesn't tense or flinch.

Just waits to see, waits to feel an arm hooking around his throat, or to hear dark, dirty things dropped in his ear.

The laugh sounds again, but further away, high up on one of the stanchions, and he draws in a slow measured breath and continues with his work.

As the whistle sounds for the end of the day, Jensen walks slowly, avoiding the rest of the workforce, skating around the crowd gathering at the clock-in machine. There is still the faint throb of pain in his cheek from the week before when he'd been too eager to get away, too eager to meet with Jared.

He'd been too eager and he'd paid for it.

Felt their boots as they'd curved in to his ribs.

Felt their fists as they had connected with his face, sending his glasses flying.

Felt their hands gripping between his legs as they'd called him _whore_.

He's sweating a little by the time he's reached the back entrance to Jeff's bar. The weather has kicked it up a notch- going from beautifully warm to stiflingly hot, and his T-shirt is starting to stick to him.

There's a humming coming from the office and Jensen smiles to see Chris sitting on one of Jeff's old ratty chairs, chewing on a pencil, dog-eared notebook in hand.

"Hey," he announces himself quietly, pulling up a chair of his own. "Am I interrupting?"

Chris shoots him a grin. He's still pale, but the bandages are hidden beneath his Henley and Jensen doubts any but a handful of people would notice the difference. "Nah, Jenny. This one," he gestures to the notebook, "Just don't want to come right." He shakes his head, and pokes one dirt-smudged finger into Jensen's knee, "Been too damned long since I tried to actually write anything."

"So?" He leans forward, trying to read the untidy scrawl of Chris' writing. "You practice a little more, get it to come right."

"That easy, huh, son?"

Jensen ducks his head a little. "You know what I mean."

"Sure," Chris pauses, shifting in his seat a little, face tightening before he settles again. "Not always quite so easy though, is it, Jen?"

Jensen blinks. "If you're about to start quoting The Rolling Stones at me, I'm leaving."

Chris throws his head back as he laughs. "Son, I'm strictly a Country boy. I was gonna try some Willie Nelson on ya."

It's a ludicrous thought that just a handful of hours ago Chris' blood was coating his hands, and he was watching Jeff press that needle through his skin.

He doesn't know what mission Chris was on.

Doesn't want to know.

"You're not serving tonight?"

Chris shakes his head, eyes skipping to the door that leads to the bar. "Showed my face a couple of times, 'nough that there shouldn't be any questions. Jeff's running the show tonight."

Jensen takes the notebook from Chris's hands, screws his face up as he tries to decipher the words. Between his banged up glasses and Chris' lazy scribble it isn't easy. He scrubs through a couple of the amendments Chris had already made to the lyrics, "Should have stuck to your first instinct," he mutters. "S'not bad. Not there yet, but..." he shrugs.

"Well, ain't you the little ball of inspiration and encouragement."

Jensen laughs. "Screw you."

"Damn, Jenny-boy, you had your chance for that!"

Jensen chokes on his laugh. "And when was that exactly?"

Chris makes a show of thinking, running his fingers through his hair. "Hmm, about when we first met, and you thought I was the most delicious thing you had ever seen."

"I was twelve!"

"Don't hear you denying it."

"Okay," Jensen bows his head in acknowledgement towards Chris. "When I was twelve and you showed up with your guitar, in your pick-up I may have had a slight crush on you." He can still remember when Chris had turned up out of nowhere, with his pretty, sly smile and habit of swearing even at mealtimes. He'd only stuck around for half the season but Jensen had never forgotten him. When they'd met up again years later, miles from home, and a lifetime from those early farmyard memories they'd still known each other instantly. "But being as you were sixteen and having flings with at least two of the hands, not to mention half the waitresses in town, I don't think I stood much of a chance."

"Shame, darlin'," Chris smirks at him. "Would have been beautiful."

Jensen shuts his eyes as he laughs hard enough that his ribs protest.

When he comes back to himself, Chris is looking at him with an expression he almost wants to call soft, almost wants to call sad.

And Jared is loitering by the doorway, gaze fixed on him.

He feels a blush starting to crawl up his neck and across his cheeks.

"Sorry," Jared clears his throat. "Jeff said I should come on back and wait for him here."

"S'alright, son. Sit yerself down and grab a drink. Hell, grab me and Jenny a drink whilst you're at it."

"Can do." Jared messes about with pouring the drinks for a minute. Jensen watches how he swipes at the old tumblers, making sure they're decently clean before pouring out large measures of whiskey.

"Wait." Jensen grabs Chris' wrist before he can take a sip. "How many painkillers are you on, man?"

"Jen!"

"I mean it. How many?" Jensen keeps his grip tight, not letting Chris get the glass anywhere near his mouth.

"Not so many I need you to be acting like my mother. Fucking hell." Chris' glare is sharp, his eyes narrowed. "Seriously, Jen, let me be."

"Chris, please?"

"Jesus Fucking Christ." Chris twists just a little in his seat, mouth thinning at the movement. "Jensen, I swear on my life, your life, and the life of my fucking guitar that I am fine to have at least three good shots of whiskey." He takes a breath, "I also swear if you do not let me drink this fine drink in the next thirty seconds I'll flatten you."

Jensen releases his hold, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, you'd try at least."

"You suggesting I couldn't take you in a fight, Jenny?"

Jensen bit back a grin, and took a sip of his own drink. "Not even on your best day. Not even when I was twelve and I saw you with the guy that sold grain feed in the back of your Ford."

Chris laughed. "Little bitch."

Jared is looking at them with an odd expression on his face. Jensen can't decide if he looks more amused or bewildered- his eyebrows are knitted together, but his mouth keeps twitching like he's fighting a smile.

Jensen drops his eyes, focusing on the drink in his hand, swirling the whiskey in the tumbler. It's hard to think of things to say to Jared, hard not to try and defend himself. Hard not to remember the expression on Jared's face after he'd watched him on his knees, lips swollen and bruised from where Fredrick had fucked his mouth.

Jared is tall with broad shoulders and reminds Jensen of some of the men who used to work on his parents' farm. Strong men who worked with their hands and smelt of clean sweat and hay in the summertime. He used to listen to the lewd jokes they'd yell to each other as they shouldered heavy bales, used to try and reason the meaning of the things they laughed at, the words they used.

It wasn't until he'd left the farm, slipping between barricades and avoiding patrols, and hitched and freight-hopped his way to town that some of the meanings became known to him. Some of the insults bandied about. Some of the things one body could do to another.

Jared hops up to sit on the desk. "It' a slow night out there," he nods towards the door to the bar.

"Course it is, Jared. I'm in here and Jeff's a lousy barman." Chris takes a long slow sip of his whiskey, a little tension easing itself from his shoulders.

"Is he?" Jensen has never seen Jeff tend bar, has never even entered the bar.

"Sure," Chris drawls. "Man doesn't know how to smile at folks without either scaring them or making promises he don't intend to keep."

"And how do you smile, Chris?"

"Me? I smile like the goddamn promise of sin I am."

"That I can believe." The whiskey is warm on his tongue, sweet and dark. The lanterns scattered about the room give Chris and Jared a honey-glow to their skin, amber hued and indulgent.

It's a nice thought that he's just here to sit and drink and talk about random shit.

To laugh at Chris' crude jokes, and watch the flickers of color in Jared's hazel eyes.

To wait on Jeff and his deep, rumbling laugh.

But he knows he's only staying until he's divulged to Jeff all the information he can remember from the papers he read the night before, and then he must be on his way, and back to Fredrick.

 

The hands sliding around his hips as he sorts through his clothes looking for a clean pair of shorts don't surprise him. Fredrick likes to touch, likes to wrap his fingers around the bruises he'd left the night before, likes to tease, and likes to see how easy it is to get a reaction from Jensen.

As Fredrick trails a finger along the point where torso meets thigh, he holds his breath.

When Fredrick scratches blunt nails across the sensitive, clean shaven skin around the base of his cock, he bites his lip and swallows a moan.

His hands are still trying to clutch at his clothes for the day, fists tightening round handfuls of denim.

"No," Fredrick whispers, licking wetly up the line of his throat. "I have different things for you to wear today."

"Fredrick?" He has to wear the denim overalls for the factory. He has to.

"Here," Fredrick pulls away with one last nip to the soft skin just beneath his jawline. He retrieves a bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"I don't understand."

"Just open it, Jensen."

He fumbles with the knot, fingers tripping over themselves, and he tugs hard until it comes free. He pushes the paper aside, pulling out a suit of blue serge and a white cotton button down shirt. "Fredrick?"

"Put them on." Fredrick is already trying to dress him, twisting him around and manhandling him. "Knew you would look gorgeous in this."

"I don't know what..."

Fredrick just pushes at his shoulders until he is facing the mirror.

It is years since he looked like this, years since he wore anything other than rough, heavy denim, or the delicate fine silk of the peach gown Fredrick likes for him to don in the apartment where it's just the two of them. The denim of his overalls scratches and chafes at his skin, the silk soothes and teases, slipping against thighs and the waxed-clean contours of his groin that Fredrick insists on. Work and pleasure. This suit, with its neat black buttons, in brushed worsted, that tapers to his hips, and its sharp lapels belongs to a time when he would wear his Sunday best to church and have matrons try to match him with their daughters.

"Why?" he half chokes on the word, and fiddles with his cuffs.

"Hmm?" Fredrick doesn't answer his question, just runs his hands up and down the lines of the jacket, thumbs smoothing over the stiff starched collar of his shirt, eyes assessing the fit of the suit in the mirror. "I've got plans for us today." He leans in close, breath warm and damp against Jensen's throat. "No work for you, today is a holiday."

Jensen tries to catch Fredrick's eyes in the mirror. "What's happening? What's going on? Is…?"

"Shush," Fredrick kisses his neck softly, just a little press of lips at his pulse point. "Nothing for you to worry over. Just a holiday."

Fredrick bustles about him, telling him to brush his hair and get ready. He pulls on his thick black boots and they look rather ridiculous with the neat elegance of the suit but he has no dress shoes to wear. Fredrick is waiting at the door, bulky holdall in hand.

He takes a breath and smiles at him.

Cars are few and far between. Finding a battery that still works is near impossible- and cars have gone the way of cell phones, and digital watches, and computers. Jensen wonders what life is like in the bigger cities, how the Regression has affected those in skyscrapers forced to use stairs and whether their power grid produces any more power than the one here does- enough for intermittent light bulbs and no more.

That Fredrick has found them a shiny Chrysler in dark red is a surprise, and Jensen thinks the last time he saw any kind of vehicle that wasn't a tank, it was a large truck and all the old and infirm were being rounded up into it and taken away.

They had never come back.

The car comes complete with a driver and Jensen and Fredrick sit in the back in silence. Jensen brushes his fingers against the butter-soft leather upholstery and gazes out the window at the buildings blurring by.

He watches as people stop and stare at the car, small groups gathering on corners, heads bent together.

He can hear nothing but the low rumble of the engine.

Fredrick doesn't talk as they drive, but his fingers bite into Jensen's knee, and Jensen can feel the excitement and tension radiating from him.

When they cross the barricade at the edge of town, the car slowing fractionally as they passed the checkpoint, soldiers with rifles either side of them, Jensen sits forward, sweat is starting to slick down his back cool and unpleasant, and he has to clasp his hands together to hide how they are trembling.

 

It has been three years and seven months since he last left the town.

Up ahead the road curves, and scrubby trees whiz by the window.

The sky gets bigger- fiercely blue, the sun shockingly bright and large.

He can see for miles, see all the way to the horizon, see so damn much that he's shaking all over and has to take off his glasses before he gets dizzy.

Fredrick is stroking a hand up the line of his spine, slowly smoothing out all the jarring sensations that are leaving his skin flushed and prickly.

His mouth is dry as the landscape blurs brown and green, and he hears himself make a strange, strangled little noise that he can't quite ( _won't quite_ ) name.

They drive for a good hour before they're bumping along an old unmade track, dust kicking up in plumes. They finally come to a stop by an old creek bed, it's mostly dried up, but a trickle of water can still be seen catching the sunlight like jewels.

Jensen staggers out of the car wobbly kneed. The air is soft and crisp and smells of apple blossom and fresh, clean water.

Fredrick leads him along the path, out of sight of the car and the driver. The holdall is unpacked- tartan blanket spread over the ground, sandwiches and chicken legs wrapped in greaseproof paper taken out, bottles of cider uncapped.

Jensen eats and drinks slowly, no taste in his mouth. He ignores Fredrick's conversation in favor of the burble of the stream, and the distant call of birds. He's discarded his boots and socks and his feet dangle over the edge of the blanket, dry grass scratching at his toes.

When Fredrick suddenly wraps a hand around his ankle and tugs so he sprawls backwards, he looks up at the depth of the blue sky, there's barely a wisp of cloud in sight and he could almost be back at the farm, out in one of the fields at the back of the barn.

Fredrick undresses him slowly, folding the new suit and shirt neatly and placing them to the side. Naked beneath the heat of the summer sun, Jensen has the abrupt thought that he really should warn Fredrick how little it takes to burn his skin.

But-

But it is so many years since he felt anything like this warmth on his body, and he lies there, pale and still, staring up and half blinded by the light, as Fredrick kisses and rubs and nips at him.

It isn't until Fredrick is parting his legs, hands eagerly running up and down his inner thighs, and he feels the breeze drift over his skin, goosebumps racing across his chest, that he starts to feel exposed. The driver is just up the path a little way, and anyone else could come across them, could see them.

Perhaps the driver is only just out of sight, listening to the raw sounds they are making. Taking himself in hand as he listens and imagines their bodies twisted up together.

Fredrick scratches a nail hard into the soft flesh high up on his leg, and he gasps loudly.

He's normally quiet. Normally bites at his lip and swallows all the groans and sighs that crawl up his throat before he can give them voice.

But here and now he can't seem to keep that part of himself under control. He moans desperately when Fredrick bites at his collarbone as his cock slides in thick and slow. The breeze is picking up and he can't lie still, squirming beneath Fredrick's weight and crying out every time Fredrick forces himself a little deeper, feeds him an extra inch.

He's too hot, bathed in sweat, skin too tight, spots dancing in front of his eyes from where he's still staring at the sun. Fredrick is going slower than usual, drawing himself out until he almost entirely free of the press of Jensen's body before pushing back in painfully slowly.

"Damn, Jensen," Fredrick is cursing and growling in his ear, one hand clawing at his hip, the other resting by his head, propping Fredrick up.

It won't last long. It can't do.

But it does, Fredrick less hurried than he has ever been, drawing out in one grueling stroke before forcing his way back in just as slow.

Fredrick's hands shift to clutch at Jensen's wrists, stopping him from touching himself, letting just the hard depth of his cock in Jensen's ass be enough.

The world quiets for a moment, and then Jensen is arching up violently, entire body seizing, head thrown back.

By the time Fredrick finishes he feels more composed. The ground is hard and lumpy beneath him, and he can feel the uncomfortable beginnings of sunburn over his nose and across his face.

He sees what may be a heron flying overhead, and he smiles at the silhouette of it.

"Jensen?" Fredrick is softening but still inside him. It will start to feel uncomfortable soon, his body too abused, too sore. "I need to ask you something."

"Hmm?" The bite on his collarbone is starting to throb a little, and his feet are itching where they rest on the grass.

"I'm being redeployed. Soon. A few weeks." Fredrick is trying to kiss him, his lips dropping off-center, smearing damply across his chin, the corner of his mouth. "You have to come with me. You will come with me, won't you?"

 

 

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0001zfgh/)   
  



	3. Jeff

The banknotes leave a slight stain on his skin as he counts them out. The residue from all of the hands each has passed through, the notes worn and grubby and hot in his grasp. There's a faint scent of oil, and tobacco, and burnt meat, the texture slick beneath his fingertips. He counts them out into neat piles and pins them with clips before stuffing them into plain envelopes and placing them behind the register.

He makes a dutiful note in his ledger.

It always pays to keep track of the backhanders you're doling out.

It's early still, the bar empty, just the detritus left from the night before to signal the crowds that had gathered. Jeff takes the broom and sweeps up cigarette butts, orange peel that has begun to brown at the edges, a few jagged bottle caps, and torn condom wrappers

Chris will arrive shortly, still moving awkwardly, body held stiffly, trying not to pull at his injury, but ready and insistent to work.

He'd checked Chris' wound last night, smeared cold cream along the jagged trail of it, and wrapped fresh soft bandages along its length. It's healing well, the flesh knitting slowly together, but he's no doubt that it must pull like the devil whenever Chris moves.

Jeff leans on the broom, staring out the open door, watching the men and women dressed in their denim overalls hasten past on their way to the factories and warehouses.

The air is warm in his lungs, the days getting hotter, longer.

Flies and mosquitoes are hovering and diving at a small pool of vomit just outside the door.

Graffiti has been scrawled onto the wall opposite-

 _Texas Will Again Lift Its Head And Stand_

Below this, in smaller scratchier letters-

 _Fuck the WB_

"Shit, Jeff, man, you must be getting old- daydreaming your life away," Chris is blocking the doorway, shadow long and narrow on the bar floor.

He looks pale, dark smudges beneath his eyes, hair loose and straggly.

But he's breathing, and from where Jeff stands he cannot even see his injury.

"Don't mock, your time will come."

"Nah," Chris shakes his head. "Old's a state of mind. And it ain't one I ever intend to getting around too."

Jeff finds it harder to find his smile than it should be. Chris is a good kid, all kinds of reckless with his own life but mindful of where they send the youngsters, and loyal as a dog. "Thinking maybe I was born old," Jeff admits.

He leans over the bar and snags a couple of cold beers, pops the tops, passes one to Christian.

He takes a breath, eyes watching the heat haze hovering above the sidewalks. Sweat is already slicking the small of his back, his feet feeling swollen and charbroiled in his boots. The sweet cool fizz of beer in his mouth pushes back the heaviness of the weather for a moment, then he swallows, and feels it press at him again.

He'd never even been much of a beer drinker, not even back in Seattle, when he was a kid still, and all wars were held far from American soil.

Even in those long gone days he'd liked the slow kick of a good shot of whiskey or two, something you sipped at, could luxuriate in.

He rolls the beer bottle, still chill and spotted with condensation, back and forth between his hands, shutting his eyes.

"Jeff?"

He glances over at Chris.

He's buried boys younger than Chris is now, he's seen weeping red stumps where hands used to be, and he's heard girls sob disconsolately with their legs crossed tight.

Give him another week, maybe two, and Chris will be shimmying through barbwire, tangling with a soldier or five, breaking into depots, or the goddamn WB's military HQ.

"Yeah?"

"You should…." Chris' voice trails off as a customer arrives, a WB officer, all spit-shined and sleek and tan.

Jeff watches as Chris smiles and jokes with the man, serving him with a wink and a twitch of the lips.

Kid should have been on the stage.

Jeff busies himself with rinsing out glasses and filling up the ice bucket, one ear listening as Chris slowly encourages the officer to talk about himself, to spill all his secrets.

Chris makes a fine bartender, but an even better spy.

He nods at Chris before moving back into the depths of the bar, following the curve of the wood round, past all the little alcoves that shield couples at night with their grasping, groping, desperate touches, to the door to his office.

He kicks his boots off into the corner, slouches down into his chair, socked feet up on the edge of the desk.

He's got good men and women working for him.

Men who can slide a blade between your ribs without making a sound.

Women who can spoon poison into your coffee as they smile sweetly over the pot.

Chris, who can have strips of skin sliced off his torso, and still laugh at WB officers' jokes come morning.

Young Jared, who is proving to be worth his weight as far as supplying a route out for all the intelligence they are gathering. Sending coded messages up to the distant safety of Canada, and the folks trying to co-ordinate a collective resistance movement.

Whilst Jensen is growing more and more adept at ferreting out the most important information from his WB lover.

And Jeff knows he should be content.

  
It's dark when Jared arrives, smiling over the heads of the factory workers crowding five deep at the bar.

Jeff doesn't acknowledge him, just serves out beer and whiskey, listening patiently to the gripes and moans of the men as he pours their drinks and takes their money. When he feels Chris' hand gently tap him on the elbow, he edges down into the darker recesses of his bar, until he reaches the doorway to his office.

Through the door it is blissfully quiet; the country music and babble of voices falling away.

Jared is sitting on one of the chairs facing the desk, long fingers steepled around his knee, eyes half closed.

He gets a lazy, fox-eyed look when he takes his chair opposite the boy.

"You ever see any of Dodgson's work," Jared begins without preamble. "Lewis Carroll's, that is."

Jeff frowns, "Read some."

"No," Jared leans forward a little, soft indolence gone from the lines of his body. "Not his writing, his pictures, man."

"Can't say I have."

"The photos are gorgeous. The time he must of taken composing the images, what shapes and textures to use to draw the viewer's eye, and still have the impact of the candid? Amazing." Jared's voice is low, the words coming out quickly, the rapid speech of the devout. "And he's all these pictures of kids. Little girls mostly, and they're…"

"What?"

"Beautiful, and sweet, and so fucking sensuous it twists your stomach."

"Jared, what…?"

"That's," Jared pauses as if just realizing now what he actually wants to say. As if he hadn't been thinking on this, whatever it is, for some time. "That's what Jensen brings to mind."

Jeff studies the boys face. He's serious, that's easy to see. There's no joke in his eye, no twist of laughter in his lip. "How so?"

"Because, it's like… He's gorgeous, that's obvious, anyone can see that, you don't need an eye for that. But, beyond that, you can almost taste the _sex_ in the air when you look at him." Jared clears his throat, one hand jabbing out as he tries to make his point. "But then there's the simple knowledge of how screwed up his situation is. And he must be so fucking strong, so fucking brave, I don't doubt that, but…"

"But?"

"But, he must be screwed up in the head a little too, don't you think? Because, ultimately, and for the best reasons, he is selling himself, and I don't see how that _can't_ screw with his head."

Jeff holds in a sigh. It isn't that he disagrees. If he's honest he probably thinks Jared has one hell of a point, but to simplify it into these terms makes him a little nauseous.

"I think we are both going to need a drink for this conversation."

"Just tell me to shut up, if you want, Jeff." Jared manages to quirk his mouth in the semblance of a smile. "Just tell me when I overstep the bounds. Trust me when I say you won't be the first person to tell me so and I won't take no offence."

Jeff pours out two drinks. He thinks it's possible that before the Occupation, before Jensen, before Jared, that he used to go for days without alcohol, now he can't remember the last time he spent six hours without it.

"He makes me think of the pictures because somehow he represents sex, and it seems wrong." Jared's words have slowed. He bites out each one with force, with the effort of wanting to be understood.

"He reminds you of the pictures," Jeff corrects mildly. "Because he makes you feel guilty."

Jared pauses, glass half way to his mouth. "He makes me feel guilty, or he makes you feel guilty?"

"Damn, kid." Jeff shakes his head. It would be a simple task to relate to Jared all the reasons he has to feel guilty over Jensen. "You don't know the half of it."

A fresh batch of moonshine, all neat in mason jars, boxed up in plywood, and cushioned with hay.

Money for the 'Stillers.

Money for the men that run the gamble of smuggling it in.

Money for the fucking World Bank Officers that turn a blind eye.

It's a damn surprise the bar is making any profit at all.

"Porn," Jared announces.

"I'm sorry?" It's late and his knee is aching where he's been standing too long, tending bar.

"That’s how come I got into taking pictures- porn."

Jeff feels his lips tugging into a smile despite himself. "What, you wanted to have an excuse to tell guys to get naked?"

"Nah, man, that's not it. Was a boyfriend I had, seems he liked to take naughty pictures of whoever he was with, and…"

Jeff laughs, the sound breaking free from his chest unexpectedly. "You telling me there's lots of dirty pictures of you in your birthday suit floating about?"

Jared shrugs, and then grins blindingly. "Well, I wouldn't say lots, but yeah there may be a few still out there. Point was, he was into taking these photos and had a whole little darkroom set up where he could develop them in private. And he showed me how."

"And you thought you wanted to make your own pornography collection too?"

"Don't be a dick," Jared nudges his thigh lightly with his foot. "I was looking at these photos of me, and photos of these other guys, these tiny little moments captured, you know? And I just kept thinking of how I wanted to do that, be able to just trap that split second."

"Okay," Jeff drawls, shutting his eyes as he stretches, almost arcing off his chair. "And so you just started then?"

"Well, I went and told my Daddy about it. I mean, not _all_ about it- just that I wanted to be a photographer," Jared pauses, glancing at Jeff. "He started me off on his old little pinhole camera- making contact prints by the red of a damn rear bike light."

Jeff watches Jared, watches how still he's holding his body, how his eyes stay locked forward. "Come a long way."

"Guess so."

The lights had been low, he remembers that, guttering candles throwing misshapen figures on the walls.

Jensen with hollowed cheeks and eyelashes gilded gold.

The soft purples of his bruised eye lost in shadows, the marks ringing his throat invisible.

Jeff hadn't needed to ask where the damage had come from; he'd already read the report filed by one of his operatives- a collaborator, one of the scum who fucked the enemy, set upon by a gang of men, beating and choking him.

Jeff even knew how they had called him _Sweetheart_ when they'd wrapped their hands around the fragile length of his neck.

Three years ago and he can still remember perfectly. That one night, which should have faded in his mind, should be blurred around the edges, and bleached of its color.

Jensen falling to his knees, no grace or elegance, just _dropping_.

"Please?"

"No, Jensen. Get up. What…?"

A strangled sound. " _Please_."

And letting him, when his pleas had turned to begging, and his eyes shone with tears and he'd laughed sharp and hysterical.

He'd let him.

And it had been hot and raw and tender.

A little too forceful.

A little too quick.

And Jensen had swallowed and hummed and only backed off when Jeff was panting and spent and felt near bruised by the wet pressure of Jensen's mouth.

"Damn it, Kid." His own voice wrecked, drawn tight and thin. "Jesus."

Jensen's eyes sliding away, fixing on the corner, but his face hard and set. "Said he loved me," a scratchy rasp.

"Jen?"

"Fredrick. Tonight. He said he was in love with me."

  
He has two operatives that work in the Supervisor's Office in one of the largest factories. They are invaluable for getting supplies of food and medicine and weapons distributed. Jeff normally only hears from them in a roundabout fashion- notes left at a drop letting him know when and where to collect supplies.

They never come to the bar.

Never.

They have their own ways of operating, their own little network of helpers- half of them black-marketeers with no thought to the movement, just interested in getting a little of this for a little of that.

When he gets a note that says that there are whispers all around, he wonders if their minds have snapped.

That he doesn't hear from them again comes as no surprise.

Three more are dead before more than a handful of days have passed.

Perhaps they are getting reckless.

Perhaps they have just been too lucky for too long.

Jeff dreams of Seattle and wet slick sidewalks.

He dreams of coffee shops and jazz sweet and low.

He dreams of wrestling with umbrellas and bodies floating by in the ship canal.

He dreams of Jared and Jensen kissing in the rain.

  
Jared is laughing as Jeff tells him about a boyfriend he'd once had; a jealous little bastard who'd accused Jeff of having flings with the mailman, all three of their neighbors, the guy who ran the coffee shop, and even the old gent who walked his dog past their building daily. They'd broken up quick enough, the relationship going out with a bang as Jeff's boyfriend yelled and screamed and smashed every bit of crockery in the apartment.

"Christ." Jared is still trying to get his laughter under control, lips twitching with the effort. "How'd you end up with a nutcase like him anyway?"

"Wasn't too discerning back then," Jeff admits. "He was pretty, and I'd always had a thing for the ones with a temper."

"Are you more discerning now?" Jared asks, and Jeff wonders if the kid's voice hasn't dropped a little, become just a little more honeyed and deep.

Become just a little more laden with meaning.

Jeff would be a liar if he didn't admit to having looked. Jared is tall, even taller than himself, and he's young and pretty, with pretty hazel eyes, and pretty dimples, and is pretty much _more_ than Jeff thinks he has any right to anymore.

"Perhaps," he concedes. He doesn't want to _encourage_ exactly, but he certainly isn't going to put the boy off if he wants to make a play.

"Personally, I always like the ones that it takes a while to figure out." Jared shifts in his seat a little, stretching out his legs, making a show of arching his back. "The ones you have to watch, the ones that don't give it all away, don't make it easy."

"A little mystery?"

"Exactly!" Jared licks his lips, just the tiniest flash of tongue darting out to dampen his lower lip. "I've a low boredom threshold, man. I like guys that keep you on your toes, the ones you never know what to expect next from."

Jeff huffs a laugh. It seems so long ago that he was that young, that filled with the constant desire to do, and be, and have.

The evening is drawing in but it isn't late yet. The bar is busy, heaving with officers and workers alike- some hidden in the dark little niches, making rough, slurping noises, groaning low and sharp.

He should be lending Chris his help, but he feels that restlessness he gets sometimes, that comes and goes with the crowds. He doesn't wish for solitude, but the press of people, the babble of their voices makes his head ache and sets his teeth on edge.

Jared starts up a story of one of his own old loves. Jeff lets his voice wash past him, listening and not.

He wonders how many lovers this boy has had.

Not one for one night stands, he reckons, not like Chris who loves the chase and adventure of tumbling a new body into his bed.

But not one to need promises and forever either. Eager and content, as happy or not to turn a friendship into something a little more intimate.

There's a clattering sound somewhere off to the left, and Jeff knows it's Jensen who still trips over his own feet sometimes, like the coltishness of adolescence has refused to abandon him.

There is nothing else after a minute, and Jeff figures Jen has gone down to the bedroom in the basement.

He raises an eyebrow at Jared and clambers to his feet.

Jen is pacing back and forth when they get down the stairs. Striding from one corner of the room to the other, breaths coming in short sharp pants that seem to punch out of him.

"Jen?" Jeff steps into his path, but Jensen veers away.

Jared stays over by the staircase, observing silently.

"Jensen?" Jeff grabs his arm, fingers curling around muscle, forcing him to stop. Jen is nothing but barely restrained tension beneath his hand, he positively thrums with it, like electricity crackling and hissing. Jensen turns his face to look up at Jeff, and Jeff marvels at the pink stripe of sunburn that highlights the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

And the damn glow of his freckles is enough to make his own breath catch and a low warmth uncurl in his belly.

But Jen's eyes are wide, almost unseeing, the green almost lost against the black of his pupils.

"Jensen, talk to me, darling."

His hand tightens involuntarily when Jensen laughs, the sound a little too harsh, a little too wild. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jared startle.

"Jen, please?" He brings up one hand, and cups the boy's jaw, thumb trailing a line down his throat. His pulse is thundering, and he can see a fine layer of sweat at the kid's temples.

Jensen takes a sudden sharp breath, then surges up to kiss Jeff, his mouth a wet sliding pressure against his own. "Hey," Jeff pulls back. "None of that, sweetheart. You just tell me what's in your head."

Jen shakes his head, but it isn't a _no_. "He's leaving," his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in days. "They're posting him somewhere else. He's leaving. He's leaving and he asked me to go with him. He asked me to go with him, and he's leaving, and I said no."

It takes a moment for Jeff to sort through what Jensen has just said, to pick out the most important parts.

Fredrick Thomas is being deployed elsewhere, and Jensen is finally going to be free of the bastard.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," he whispers, pulling Jensen tight in against his body. "That really is wonderful."

Jensen is still shaking, but he's smiling now too, eyes big and unable to settle on anything, darting around the room, darting over Jeff, over Jared.

He sees Jared move a little closer, circling around as if he's worried about scaring Jensen.

Jeff smoothes a hand through Jensen's hair, it's caught the sun a little too, turning a sweet summer blond, and he hums a little low in his throat. Jensen's breaths haven't calmed at all, he's still breathing as if he's just run flat out for five miles, and Jeff waits.

When Jensen's knees buckle suddenly, his whole body going limp, Jeff and Jared catch him between them.

Jeff is murmuring soothing nonsense to him, calling him _sweetheart_ and promising him all will be well; and he can hear Jared doing much the same, damn near cooing at him, the same way he might a skittish, wounded animal.

They carry him over to the bed, stripping the sheet back quickly, and tumbling Jen out of his outer clothes.

There is no discussion between them as they both climb into the bed alongside Jensen, bracketing him in the middle, his body warm and soft and pliant between them.

Jeff presses a kiss to Jensen's bare shoulder, and reaches out to scrub lightly at Jared's hair before settling down to sleep.

  
At nineteen Jensen is half starved.

He's narrow all over, hard, thin little bones showing through pale skin dotted with freckles, great big green eyes, a lush mouth, and an anger the width and breadth of Texas.

Nineteen and dressed in rags and pacing the length of Jeff's office.

Jeff thinks about St James' Cathedral, the two high towers, the glossy wet look of the stone when the rain pours down, the stark beauty of the black and gold window on the west façade.

This kid with a groove cutting into his brow as he scowls and sneers and demands to be made use of, reminds him of that stark and desperate beauty the cathedral possesses.

He sends the boy on his way.

His network of spies and saboteurs is still in it's infancy and he's already been burnt by young men with nothing left to lose and nothing but their hate to keep them warm going off half-cocked and causing more suffering all round.

He's learning loose cannons have no place in his resistance.

Jensen is just this kid, wild of temper and burning up with the need to prove himself, eyes haunted by loss, and he sends him on his way.

Nine days later he's come back, still dressed as raggedly as he had been that first day, still looking like he hadn't seen a good meal this side of Christmas, but he speaks with a more measured tone, holds himself still, and puts forward his idea, his proposition of what use he could be to the cause, to Texas.

Jeff tells him he has no place for boys dumb enough to offer to whore themselves out.

When Jensen returns the third time, a further seven days later, he wears faded but neatly stitched overalls, and his cheeks have lost their bright feverish spots of color.

He tells Jeff what time the guards change nightly, and where the ammunition dump is, and how many soldiers guard the food store that lies in the center of town.

When Jeff asks how he came by this information Jensen just glares at him, chin tilted up and defiant.

When Jeff swears and asks if he'd ever been with a man, with _anyone_ , before this, Jensen looks away and stammers an excuse before fleeing the room.

  
Jensen wakes in the night, body twisting sharply, startling Jeff and pulling him from his own dreams. Before he can function enough to soothe Jen, try to ease him back down into sleep, Jared is already there, leaning over him, touching his face, telling him to rest, that it's all okay.

Most of the candles have guttered and extinguished, and the light remaining is dim and soft. He watches Jared smile and pet Jensen, watches the play of light and shadow on their faces.

They look like nothing but boys, too young to have this much hurt in their lives.

At their age Jeff was in college, with pretty things that wanted to experiment, and great kegs of beer, and bongs.

At their age Jeff was still finding out just exactly what he liked in bed, and how much fun it was to tease a lover for hours on end before letting them come.

At their age Jeff had never seen a dead body, and spent days and nights playing pool and poker and pranking his dorm-mates.

  
In the morning Jensen is gone, and Jeff has an armful of Jared, his body warm and heavy, half sprawled across him.

Jeff lets Jared kiss him. It's a sweet morning kiss, no real heat to it, no burning desperation, and Jeff relaxes into the feel of it.

He's always appreciated lazy early morning kisses that are a prelude to nothing, the unrushed ease and comfort of them.

So few of his previous partners had understood anything more than the punishing need to fuck and come and have.

But Jared kisses like they have hours to do nothing but lick into each other's mouths and learn the territory there.

He draws back finally. "How'd you rest, kid?"

"Had more peaceful nights," Jared confides. "Has he gone back to him, do you think?"

"Yes." Jeff presses his mouth against Jared's again. "Yes, he's gone back for now. But he won't change his mind," he has to believe this, has to keep faith that Jensen is just being mindful of his position and is not doubting whether to he shouldn't have said yes, and the chance to continue his spying for them. "He's a damn stubborn little bastard."

"Hmm," Jared tucks himself in close to Jeff's body heat, hooking their ankles together. "Want to believe you."

"Do, then."

"Simple as that?"

"Kid, there is nothing about this situation that is going to be simple I promise you that. But Jen, for all his bloody mindedness is not stupid and he isn't going to go off with Fredrick Thomas." He feels Jared suck in a deep breath, and continues before the boy can start to argue, "I promise you that. Can't and won't guarantee you anything else, but Jen won't leave."

"You think we could stop him, if he put his mind to it?"

It's an interesting question, their sense and instincts against Jensen's own determination. "There's ways and means, boy. Ways and means."

Jared laughs, low and not entirely amused into his neck, "Cryptic fucker."

  
Jeff debates what to say to Chris. As far as the Resistance goes he has no secrets from Christian, he may be the great plan maker, but Chris has a mind for detail and a damn strong practical streak that makes him invaluable.

Chris is also the nearest thing Jensen has to a friend.

He doesn't know exactly how they know each other, just that they do, from before.

Before the war.

Before the occupation.

Before Chris had scars the length of his body.

Before Jensen got fucked for information.

As a leader of the Resistance Chris has every right to know that they may be losing one of their best means of inside information.

As Jensen's friend it is not Jeff's place to tell him of the small personal details of his life.

He watches as Chris hauls in buckets of ice, packs them tightly around the bottles of beer, takes inventory of the bottles of brandy, whiskey, vodka, plus mixers they have in stock.

"Jeff, if you don't spit it out soon, son, I'm going to start losing my temper."

"Sorry?" It's an obvious stall for time, but the difference between what he should tell Chris regarding the developments of Jensen's position as Resistance operative, and what he must keep private as relates to Jen's personal life still eludes him.

"Fucking Christ! Just tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever the hell has you loitering about watching me like some fucking goddamn overzealous stalker." Chris throws his dishrag down by Jeff's feet. "Don't fucking insult me, by telling me there isn't something that needs to be damn well said. You are just busting to tell me something, can see it in your eyes plain as day, so do yourself a favor and consider the battle lost and _tell me!_ "

The doors to the bar are wide open, letting in the faint breeze along with the fierce sunlight. Chris is silhouetted against a block of solid light, figure thin and tense.

Jeff nods, "Not here," and leads Chris back deeper into the alcoves that are shadowy even at midday.

He relates it simply; Fredrick Thomas' forthcoming move, Jensen's decision. Doesn't say anything about Jen's faint pallor the night before, or the feel of his body, slack with sleep, curled in the bed next to him.

"That's it? Fuck, I thought you were going to give me bad news, man." Chris leans his head back against the wall, eyes half lidded as he watches Jeff. "I know what this means for the movement," he concedes, "But, you know sure as I'm fucking standing here that my friends come first."

Jeff nods, eyes dropping from Chris' face until he's staring at the ground.

"I ain't fighting for the land," Chris spits. "You know this."

  
Occasionally they smuggle more than information out.

Sometimes it's people.

It's hard, and they only do it when the odds are so far against the person surviving if they were to stay in Texas as to make even the slimmest chance worthwhile.

But it happens.

And just sometime Jeff thinks of getting Jensen out of here. Of smuggling the boy up to Canada, seeing what he could make of himself in a normal life, where he didn't use his body to get by.

And he knows Jensen would never agree.

And he knows that even if he were to get the boy out and safe, the damn stupid fool would only get himself killed trying to get back.

But sometimes he likes to think on it; Jensen escaping.

Sometimes he even likes to think he'd go with him.

  
There is a function on at the old town hall tonight. The WB and all kinds of dignitaries and bureaucrats gathering in black tie and shiny shoes to toast champagne glasses and appreciate their own splendor. Jeff knows that Jared has been invited to record the occasion for posterity; to snap sharp pretty pictures of the kind of elegance and glamour that comes with occupying a land for its fucking oil wells.

It's getting late, but Jeff thinks these kind of things probably last well into the small hours and he doesn't expect to see Jared until dawn is close.

He occupies his time between sips of whiskey and slow heavy tugs at his own flesh. The toweling bathrobe he wears has seen better days, it smells a little of stale cigar smoke, and has the odd stain on it- red wine and things he cannot so easily recognize. But there is no one to watch, no one to see, and he cares little for the aesthetic he produces.

He listens to the steady tick of the clock as his own hand increases it’s pace, the wet sound of flesh on flesh far louder than any other noise in the basement.

He doesn't normally like to indulge in petty fantasies when he does this, preferring to simply give himself up to the pure physicality of the moment, but tonight he sees-

 _Jared's long, solid muscled torso, the tight flat lay of his stomach, the heaviness of his cock between his legs._

 _The narrow lean curve of Jensen's back, the vicious jut of his hips, the smooth creamy flesh of his thighs._

-and gasps and moans as loudly as if those pretty, delicious boys were here and giving him all their attention.

Jeff is dozing when they finally do arrive. Entering the basement in a flurry of tangled limbs, feet tripping over themselves, and arms locked around each other's waists.

Jeff yawns and sits up from the chair he's slumped in.

The boys are mildly tipsy, all goofy smiles and boneless slouches, they are damn near giggling.

Jeff rubs the sleep from his eyes and regards them tiredly. "A good night, then?"

Jensen shakes his head. "No, not really." He pulls away from Jared, swaying up to where Jeff is seated, draping himself sudden and soft over Jeff's lap. "Pretty far from good really"

"Oh?"

Jensen rests his forehead on Jeff's shoulder, speaking directly into the soft fabric of his robe. "Can't not do anything," he murmurs, speech a little slurred. "Found someone else, he… he…" Jen's voice trails off, and Jeff feels him shudder against him.

He turns his eyes to where Jared is stood, watching them. "Oh? Who?"

Jensen's hands are clutching sporadically at his gown, gripping tight then loosening. "Just an officer. No one. No one really."

"Seems there's a queue to take Thomas' place," Jared speaks up, not moving from where he's standing three feet away. "One officer was rather persistent."

Jeff's eyes drop to Jared's knuckles, trying to discern in the faint light if they are bloodied and bruised.

He presses a hand to the center of Jensen's back, holding him more firmly to him.

"And why were you there, sweetheart? I didn't know you were going to the ball."

Jen shrugs, the feel of the motion running right through Jeff's chest, through bone and blood and muscle. "Fredrick wanted to show me off," he pauses. "I think it was goodbye."

Jared steps closer, touching first Jensen's dark blond hair, before trailing a hand through Jeff's own hair. "Maybe it was, I don't know." He leans down close, so his breath is warm on Jeff's cheek, "But I think it must be time for bed now, yeah?"

  
Tucked into the hollow seat of one of the armchairs Jeff keeps a little leather bound book.

It isn't a journal, and it doesn't contain any of his thoughts, deep and dark or otherwise.

All there is, is a tally. Little lines in blue biro counting off exactly how many men and women have died for him.

Died fighting for this cause, rather than trying to keep their heads down and living until tomorrow.

  
They do sleep. Laid out like before, Jensen sandwiched between Jeff and Jared. Jensen's hand on Jeff's chest, his knee pressed to Jared's thigh.

Jeff wakes an age before the other two begin to stir.

By all rights he should rise, get dressed, make some coffee, fry up a pan of bacon and eggs. Instead he lays there and listens to them breathe, the deep slow rhythm of it, in and out, in and out.

He hears Jared begin to wake first, the quickened breaths, and slow stirring motions.

It's been a little while since he last had a lover in his bed, and the etiquette escapes him, but then again perhaps there are simply no rules for this.

When he hears Jensen beginning to make soft sleepy little noises, and feels him shift and slide against him, he turns onto his hip, facing the pair of them.

He should rise.

Should make coffee.

Make breakfast.

One of Jared's long, toned, muscular arms comes up, wraps round him and Jensen both, pulling all three tight together, and they all lie still for a moment, feeling the flesh and firmness of each other's bodies pressed tight.

"It's your choice, sweetheart," Jeff whispers. "It's all your choice. Nothing happens that you don't want it to. Nothing you don't like, nothing you don't need."

He feels Jensen take a deep shuddering breath, knows Jared feels it too.

"You want to get up and leave? You do that, no explanations necessary. You don't ask permission for anything. You want something, you have it." He kisses Jen's ear, eyes darting over Jensen's form to see Jared. "Simple as that."

He draws back, gives Jen some breathing room, nods for Jared to do likewise.

He listens to the clock tick. Counts to one hundred.

Jensen twists until he's lying flat on his back.

He doesn't say anything.

Jeff counts to two hundred.

He turns to face Jensen.

"Please," Jen's voice is low, a little hoarse, a little indistinct.

"Of course, darling. Anything," he promises, shifting closer, and they are touching at ankle, knee, thigh, hip, and chest.

Jensen's legs part, and he twists to hide his face in the crook of his elbow.

He hears Jared make a small noise of protest.

"No, no, no, sweetheart, Jen. That has to be the one rule." He softens his words with a kiss to Jensen's throat, his hand finding his hip, fingers and thumb stroking gently through the cotton of his shorts. "No hiding. If you want this, want us, you want it honestly." He kisses up behind Jensen's ear, licks and nips until he hears a soft broken sound break free from Jensen's chest. "It's a good thing, I promise you."

He pulls back to watch Jared slowly and gently tug Jen's arm away from his face.

They are exquisite.

Young, with high cheekbones, and dark, sooty lashes framing such pretty eyes, hazel and green.

There is a pause, Jensen lying painfully still between them.

Jeff thinks back on previous lovers. He thinks on those that wanted to be teased, the ones that wanted to be used, the ones who wanted it fast, or slow, or rough.

Jen lies still and Jeff curls a hand around the nape of his neck.

Jensen arches up, eyes closed, breath audibly catching in his throat.

Jeff tightens his hand just a fraction, smiling as Jensen groans and shivers.

The feel of Jensen's pulse beneath his hand, the shimmer of sweat on his forehead, the pursing of his lips.

Jeff trails his thumb the length of Jen's throat and holds his breath.

Jared smiles down at Jensen, laughing suddenly when Jen suddenly stirs, reaching up to drag Jared's undershirt over his head, Jensen's mouth trying to latch onto whatever skin is bared, kissing and biting desperately.

"That's it, baby." Jared's voice is molten. Liquid and burning. His fox slanted eyes flicking between Jensen and Jeff. "Whatever you want, you heard Jeff, you can have whatever it is you want."

Jensen is still attacking Jared's chest, nipping at olive hued skin, tasting all he can. Jeff reaches out to draw Jen's t-shirt off him, mesmerized by the shifting muscles in his back. He presses his mouth in a wet slide down Jen's back, the bumps of his spine under against his lips.

He rests his fingers against the waistband of Jensen's shorts. "Do you want this?" he asks again. "You have to tell me, sweetheart, you have to say."

There is a rough, broken sound, and then Jensen's voice comes through clear and true. "Yes. Yes. Please. I want…. I need… Please, please…"

Jared chuckles, "Anything." Jeff watches as he slides down Jensen's body, long wet tongue darting into his navel, then trailing lower. "You are gorgeous. Just gorgeous, look so pretty for us, going to love you so good, baby. Promise you. Promise you, whatever you want. Whatever you want you can have."

Jeff finishes sliding Jensen's shorts off his legs with their sweet little bow. He has to still himself as he watches Jared dart lower, dropping a thousand kisses to the skin, shaved bare, looking almost prepubescent, above Jensen's cock.

Jeff catches his breath when Jared surges forward, mouth opening wide to take Jensen deep in one heartfelt swoop.

He can almost feel it himself, the sweet, desperate heat of it, the pull and suction, the absolutely necessity to come now, right this second.

Jensen cries out, and Jeff presses his mouth to Jen's to swallow any further sounds.

He kisses him deeply, even as Jensen struggles to breathe, hips arching up high off the bed.

When he comes it is with one hand tangled in Jeff's hair, the other pressed firmly between Jared's shoulder blades.

Jared pulls off with a wet obscene pop. There is a sticky white mess around his mouth, and Jeff drags him up sharply for a kiss, Jensen below them, looking on, and gasping to regain his breath.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Jeff asks, peppering kisses to Jensen's neck and face. "What is it that you want? Tell us." He mouths at Jensen's clavicle, he doesn't use enough pressure to bruise and he thinks that's a shame.

He would like to mark Jensen.

He would like to see little mouth shaped marks on his body, see a sign of where he had been, what Jensen had loved, had reacted to, had mewled and sighed at.

But there is still Fredrick to consider.

Even now, even in this bed, with the three of them moving in time as one, there is still Fredrick to consider.

And they may not mark Jensen as theirs until Fredrick is miles away and far from his own claim.

"Come on, Jen," Jared encourages. "Tell us what you want. Tell us all of it. Everything you want done to you. Everything you want to do to us."

Jensen shakes his head, eyes beyond wide, black in the darkness and blissed out on pleasure.

"No good," Jared carries on, as Jeff continues to kiss and lick his collarbone, one hand idly stroking at Jensen's sensitive, sated cock. "Need to know, not mind readers. You have to tell us. You."

Jensen makes a low rough noise. "Inside. I… I, inside, please."

Jeff feels his own cock twitch hard at the thought. A jagged spike of pleasure darting the length of his body. "Of course, of course, sweetheart."

He leans off the edge of the bed for a moment. He will not hurt Jensen, and supplies are crucial for this. Snagging a small tube of slick from the bedside table he twists to look at Jared, "Any preference?"

Jared smiles, one hand leaving where it was dragging a blunt nail from across the peak of Jensen's nipple to trace the length of Jeff's flank. "Not really, just whatever, honestly."

Jeff smiles back, and then runs a hand up the inside of Jensen's thighs, pleased at how eagerly they part for him. He coats his hand in the slick, then circles one finger slowly at Jensen's entrance, feeling him clench and squirm against the gentle pressure.

He can feel Jared's eyes on him, Jared's eyes tracking exactly what his fingers are doing, and when he presses up and in and Jensen gasps as if this is precisely what he has been waiting for, he hears an echo of the gasp from Jared.

Jensen squirms on his one finger, rocking forward and back, tiny little sounds forced free from his throat.

He adds a second finger, and Jensen mewls and tries to fuck himself back all the harder, his body demanding more, harder, faster, now.

After Jeff adds the third finger he slows, stretching almost lazily.

There is no hurry.

And as much as he wants, wants to bury himself within the slick tight heat of Jensen, he'd rather wait and listen to Jensen drive himself desperate on his fingers.

"Damn," Jared curses softly in his ear, panting softly as he watches Jen squirm and rock and arch up.

It isn't until Jen turns his big green eyes on him, and chokes out, "Please, Jeff, fuck me, please," that he drives himself in.

The tight pressure of being inside Jen is immense. It's beyond hot, it's like being encased in lava, the feeling of Jensen burning deep into his cock.

Jared's hands come down on his hips and then he is pistoning forward, Jensen arching up to meet him

Even if it hadn't been months since he had anything like this, a tight, hot channel around his dick, he would never be able to last long.

It's too much, too good.

It's burning and tight and fierce.

He can feel Jared's hands ghosting over his back, not guiding or encouraging now, just touching, touching him as he plunges forward again into the body beneath him.

Jensen is hard again, crying out as he pushes up and rocking back onto each thrust.

When Jeff comes, he grunts out his completion and collapses hard onto Jensen's body, Jared still behind him, hands grasping harder as he'd gotten closer, gotten more erratic, helping to direct his movements.

He gasps for air, and slow pulls himself free, rolling to the side.

"Beautiful." Jared trails a finger up the sticky length of Jeff's cock, before switching over to press and circle at Jensen's entrance.

Jeff wonders how sore Jen must be.

Whether the ache is that good kind of reminder, or whether it goes deeper, a pain that lies deep in the bones.

Regardless, Jensen groans as Jared presses one large finger into the slick mess at his ass, and then convulses, biting out, "Yes, please, more, please."

"Whatever you want, baby," Jared assures. He presses his finger in again and Jeff watches as Jensen bows completely off the bed, body reacting so strongly to the pressure at his prostate. "Jeff," Jared's grin is clear in his voice, "Help me."

Jared flops back on the bed, fingers pulling free. He tugs at Jensen's hips, and Jeff soon understands what he wants.

"Come on, darling," he whispers in Jen's ear, "Time to get up." He has to take most of Jensen's weight, too fucked out and boneless to help much, but he draws him up, and positions him carefully over Jared, knees either side of Jared's narrow hips. "Now, are you ready, Jen? You tell us if you're not."

Jen just struggles in his hands, trying to press down too quickly, to impale himself too hard, too violent.

"Shush," He soothes, hands tightening to abort Jensen's movement. "Slow and steady, love." He achingly slowly draws Jen down onto the long thick length of Jared's cock. "That's it, that's just it, love."

Jared is struggling to still himself, hips making tiny little thrusts. "It's good. It's good, baby. Isn't it good?" His hands settle on Jensen's hips, overlapping with Jeff's own, and between the two of them they start an unhurried and deliberate pace; forcing Jen up, until only the tip of Jared's cock is breaching him, the wide head stretching him to the point of pain, then tugging him down, until there is nothing left to give.

"Come on, Kid," Jeff kisses the back of Jen's neck as he presses him down again, tastes his sweat, the salty skin damp and hot beneath his lips. "Tell us what you like. What pleases you? Fast? Slow? Hard?"

"I don't…" Jen shudders, "Christ! Christ, I don't know." He reaches down to clasp his own cock, but Jeff knock his hand away, gripping him himself, fingers sliding over the head, and then stroking hard, once, twice, three times.

Jared thrusts up harder, hips moving more erratically, finding it harder to contain himself. "Just tell us, Jen."

"I don't know!" Jensen is close, sweat pouring down his sides, and Jeff increases the pace on his dick. "I don't know what I like." And then Jen bows so far Jeff worries his spine might snap, and long streams of white are shooting out over Jared's chest, and Jensen is collapsing, beyond boneless and spent, held up only by Jeff's strong hands.

Jared makes a small choked sound and he thrusts up hard and fast, setting a sudden rapid pace until he too yells and pours himself deep into Jensen's spent body.

"Did good. Did good, sweetheart," Jeff babbles as he settles them all back down into the bed and a further sleep. "Did real good."

  
Jeff appreciates photography but it has never really been his medium.

A snapshot of a loved one, a place you once visited can mean the world, can make your breath catch and your heart ache with pain.

But he's never been able to view it in the same way as he does painting or drawing; can't quite get past the idea of composing your own image, your own interpretation, rather than just messing about with light and angle.

He's wanted to draw Jensen since he saw him as a nineteen year old.

His hair was longer then, almost falling into his eyes, and he'd been slight enough that he looked like a strong breeze would knock him flat.

But he had the fullest mouth Jeff had ever seen, and lashes that would suit a girl, long and thick, curling at the end.

The freckles had been a delight, but Jeff knows it was the burn and anger in his eyes that had drawn him.

It was that, that he had wanted to capture back then. The defiant youth.

Now, he just wants to draw Jen all tangled up with Jared, long limbs knocking into one another, faces sleepy and content.

  
The next time he wakes up Jeff sees Jensen already dressed, sitting the other side of the room. He thinks it is probably a good thing that Jen hasn't run all the way back to Fredrick.

"I don't want to talk about it," is Jensen's opening gamble. "I don't think it needs talking about."

"Okay," Jeff agrees slowly. At his elbow Jared is still deeply asleep, breaths deep and untroubled.

"And I don't want to stop. I don't."

"Good."

"But," Jensen pauses, fingers fiddling with his cuffs, strong white teeth biting into his bottom lip. "But I cannot be useless." He looks Jeff straight in the eye. "Fredrick is leaving. But last night, Colonel Hawkins, he made me an offer…"

"No." Jeff rises out of the bed, heedless of his nakedness. "You cannot do this again. I won't let you."

Jensen smiles small and sad. "Not your decision to make."

The weeks pass and Jensen returns when he can.

It isn't every night, but Jeff suspects his stamina couldn't stand it if it was.

Jensen returns and Jeff spends an hour licking him open, listening as his cries grow louder and louder, Jared across the room, watching whilst he strokes himself.

  
The weeks pass and Jeff kneels in front of Jared, letting the boy fuck his mouth as deep and as hard as he likes.

Jensen is on the bed, fast asleep, curled on his front, too exhausted to even twitch as Jared yells himself hoarse as he comes

The weeks pass and they play scrabble one night, arguing over the validity of words, sipping at coffee, and laughing at the crude messages they spell across the board.

At the end of the game they slink off to the bed, curl tight around each other and sleep.

The weeks pass and Jensen slowly tells them of his mother. How when the tanks and soldiers came she locked him in the storm cellar, shoving him down there so hard he'd lay sprawled and dazed on the ground as she'd locked the door tight.

How he'd taken a minute to get his bearings, head throbbing, and the cellar as dark as pitch.

He'd yelled to be let out, thrown himself against the door.

Screamed until his voice was raw.

And then the gunfire had started, loud and vicious, and the ground trembled from the tanks, and he hadn't known what to do.

He'd thought he might have heard a cry.

Couldn’t be sure.

Couldn't be sure if he'd heard it at all, let alone that it was his mother.

Let alone that it was his mother dying slow and bloody, shot down on her farm.

And then it had all gone quiet.

It had taken him three days to get out of the storm cellar, not through his own cunning or determination, but just because a handful of displaced people had wandered across their land and sought to raid the house for anything of use.

Food or water.

Neither was in great supply, but they found some rice and beans and doled out a small portion to Jensen, even as the words _thank you_ stuck in his throat.

He hadn't found his mother's body. He'd wanted to bury her here, on her land that she'd toiled over for all of her life, but there was no body and he could think of no other way to mark her life, her passing.

He'd been eighteen, and it had taken him two months to trek a jagged path across Texas before he was finally picked up by a World Bank patrol and bought to this town to work in its factories and build more tanks, more guns.

Jeff knew the story from this point.

How Fredrick Thomas had seen him, hunched and filthy next to a handful of other workers rounded up from across the land.

All half sick, half starved, and half crazed from the things they had seen.

How Fredrick had followed him, watched him, approached him with a cup of sweet water and a turkey sandwich, like he was an animal to be bought with food and a little affection.

How it had worked in a sense.

How it had worked when Jensen had realized he could use this to his advantage, and let Fredrick take him home and strip him and do all those things to him Jensen had been dreaming of but had never experienced.

Had never wanted to experience with a man he hated no matter how kind, how gentle he often was.

Jensen's voice is croaky and dry at the end of the tale, and he shies away when Jeff and Jared reach for him.

He shies away and says he needs to leave.

That Fredrick will be wondering where he is, and he cannot stay any longer.

He's stayed too long already.

When Jensen is gone Jared presses up close to Jeff. "It's not right."

"Of course it isn't."

"I mean it."

"I know you do. I know you do."

Jared looks up at the staircase where Jensen had just exited. "Will he come back?" he asks.

"Of course he will," Jeff pressed a kiss to Jared's messy hair. "Don't worry about that. He'll come back to us."

  
The weeks pass until Jensen is kissing Fredrick goodbye, and then turning and walking back to the bar without looking back.

Jeff and Jared welcome him with soft warm touches and, lips roaming his throat, licking at the delicate spot behind his ear that always has him gasping, and fingers dancing up and down his body.

And when Jensen leaves the next morning it is with twin bruises, soft mouth shaped marks, one at the edge of his collarbone the other on the sweet well of his hip.

  


  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/00020rgq/)   



	4. Christian (epilogue)

Chris lost count of his one night stands by the time he reached the ripe age of twenty.

Until then, he could still distinguish each occasion by location if not by name or appearance.

The first girl he had in the back of his truck, her panties caught up on the radio aerial.

The guy with the long hair and tattoo that covered his entire back up against a tropical fish tank.

The motel with the magic-fingers beds, that tumbledown hut down by the edge of the swamp, the hay loft at the Ackles Farm, half way up a tree in Georgia.

He's no thoughts as to this being a bad thing, it is simply a thing he is aware of.

Same as when he looks into the mirror sometimes now and he just cannot quite remember where he got this or that scar from. He cannot even count the number he has now, cannot see the ones on his back, doesn't know whether the peppered marks on his chest from a shotgun blast counts as one scar or fifty.

Friends are a separate matter.

Chris may have had more bed partners than he can recall, but people he'd term friends have always been on the slim side.

Jeff and Jensen both count.

Jeff with his warm eyes and low gruff voice, with his dirty sense of humor and aching weight of the world on his shoulders.

Jensen, the messed up kid he remembers, and the messed up man he has become.

Perhaps, in time Jared will be counted as a friend too. He likes the boy well enough, he's an easy smile and an even easier laugh, but he'll wait to see if he sticks around long enough.

If he lives long enough.

Chris isn't blind and he watches the change between the three men avidly. Watches as they start to lean into each other a little more, touch each other on the shoulder or arm a little more often, smile at each other a little softer.

Thus far Chris has been involved in four separate threesomes.

Once with two girls.

Once with a girl and a boy.

Twice with two guys.

And he can honestly say he has never had anything like this.

It is Sunday and he is watching them eat up a plate of grits each for breakfast. Jared is telling jokes, whilst his foot darts out under the table to play footsie with the pair of them.

Jeff is shaking his head in amusement, and Jen is laughing as he piles more grits onto his fork.

Chris has never seen him eat this well, this healthily, not even when they was back on Jen's family farm and his mother kept trying to force feed them both.

Soon Jen will have to leave to go to the factory, and Jared will take his archaic little twin lens reflex camera out into the streets, and he and Jeff will have to start readying the bar for the day, but until then it's just these guys enjoying breakfast and Chris' heart breaks a little.

Jen will go out and be pursued by this new WB officer, who wants a willing mouth and a willing ass, and cares for nothing in-between.

And Jen will accept his advances in the hope that he can be of some use, that he can do _something_.

And this is all he knows.

And Jared will nod genially at all the soldiers, tell them wisecracks and snap their photos. Then turn round and catch a broken starving child in his lens, capture every single moment of her misery on film and paper.

And he will observe and lie and hold himself apart until he cannot separate the upside down images through his viewer from the person before him.

And Jeff will bribe the corrupt World Bank officials with backhanders, and pour drinks and mastermind plots to bring about their destruction.

And feel the deaths of every single one of the men and women that work for him.

Chris shakes his head.

That is what might be.

But until then, he has the feeling that this just might be the start of something beautiful.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/00021gyh/)   


  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes-
> 
> Huh. And well that is it. There isn't much to add, this is clearly the work of insanity, with a touch of Casablanca mixed in at the end. In truth this is not what I meant to write- it was supposed to be a heavily plotted action-y type of story, whereas this meanders into a simple 'getting-together' fic.
> 
> And for my shame there is so much more I want to write of it.
> 
> As inspiration I claim a mix of documentaries shown on the BBC for last year's Rememberance Sunday, Das Boot, and an episode of Star Trek Voyager...
> 
> I wish I had something deep and meaningful to say here, but for the most part all I can do is babble at you and apologise for all the shortcomings in this fic.
> 
> The majority of it was written to Kane- Live in London (acoustic), with parts of Jeff's section having a soundtrack of Julia Kent's Delay.
> 
> The other major influence was photography. For just a very brief glance at a few of the pictures this either draws upon or I thought of whilst writing, please go [here](http://pigeongirl99.livejournal.com/265942.html#cutid1).
> 
> There's not much more to add, just my love and gratitude to [](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/profile)[**sillie82**](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/) , [](http://marlowe6468.livejournal.com/profile)[**marlowe6468**](http://marlowe6468.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://tallulahrose74.livejournal.com/profile)[**tallulahrose74**](http://tallulahrose74.livejournal.com/).
> 
>   
> [   
> ](http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/00022kfd/)   
> 


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